My Life, My Thoughts, My Feelings

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You scream but no one hears you.
You laugh to cover up your agony; why can nobody tell how fake it is?
You smile a smile that feels like a grimace, but it must pass off okay because no one rushes to your side.
You feel ashamed of your own weakness.
Your eyes are open but they might as well not be, because the colour is leeched out of everything.
You look in the mirror and see a stranger. A stranger who looks like a dead girl. She terrifies you. You cannot see yourself anywhere in her grey features. The death in her eyes is the death of yourself.
Who are you now?
You are empty. A shell. An automaton going through the motions of blinking a breathing, but not really knowing why.
You are mentally ill but your mind is you, so every piece of you is defined by your illness.
You are shakiness and panic attacks and lethargy and fear and despair and apathy and hollowness.
You are depression.

I haven’t posted in a very long time. I’m not going to do an update in detail because I doubt it matters.

If anyone reads this, just know this:

I am still depressed and I am still anxious.

My life has changed in various ways and I’ve had ups and downs. But the point is I’m not better (yet?). I’m still climbing this damn hill and I’m not entirely sure why I haven’t fallen to my death yet. Well, okay, I know why. Because I’m a freak and I guess somewhere inside me I know things can get better. And I suppose evidence speaks for itself because in this impenetrable blackness that is mental illness, I catch glimpses of light sometimes. Or maybe glimpses of grey. Something not quite as black.

I read a book called ‘Reasons to Stay Alive’ by Matt Haig. It’s good. Read it if you’re suffering with depression or anxiety or a mixture of the two. Read it if you’re suicidal or self harming. I read it and it helped me. I’m not better, but it did help. Just the way he managed to put into words my feelings. Anyway. Give it a try. It’s short, easy reading. The chapters are generally short too so you can read it in small segments.

Anyway. I’m blogging again. I’m the same as before but different in small ways.

I told my husband I needed him to be with me today but he went to work anyway. So I cut myself. It’s the first time I’ve done it.

I just want him to care.

For the record, the cut is pathetic. It barely broke the skin. But I see pinpricks of blood so in my head it counts. Is it sick that I’m actually proud of it? I’m so afraid of pain I thought I’d never be able to bring myself to self harm. It’s an achievement really. A sick, twisted achievement. But it’s all I achieve in my hell of a life other than existing so I think it deserves a mention.

Today is a low day. It’s like trudging through treacle, except falling doesn’t taste so sweet. I wish I could just sleep away the day, escape from the suffocating darkness. I wish I could look in the mirror and not be repulsed by what I see. On days like this I wonder what the point of me is.

Ever have that feeling where you have a million options and yet you’re bored out of your skull? Snap.

I hate this intense lack of interest in life in general. I want to occupy myself, but feel like there’s nothing I want to occupy myself with. Eating is too much hassle. Watching something is too dull. Doing housework is too arduous. Sitting here alone with my thoughts is dangerous.

I wish I could snap my fingers and just cause my anxiety and depression to evaporate. Like, it’s been three years, it’s getting old now. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Instead it’s a painful, agonisingly slow journey up a steep hill, trying to focus on the promise of a better view at the summit, but doubting such a place even exists.